


a racer's trilogy

by Merbabe



Category: Jak and Daxter
Genre: Abuse, Blood, Drinking, Drugs, F/M, Lots of Stuff, M/M, Sexual Tension, Violence, and things, erol being a haughty asshole as per usual, kg gossiping like teenage girls, lots of racing, mention of prostitution, razer being a creep, razerol, relationships, revamped fic, this fic is marked for non-con because the mizo/razer is non-con tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 01:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4646997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merbabe/pseuds/Merbabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>KRAS CITY RACING COMMITTEE: INVITES RACERS, NEW & OLD. There were to be no heroes this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a racer's trilogy

**Author's Note:**

> there is no razerol on this site, none. and that, folks is blasphemy. so i'm reviving my very, very old fic from fanfiction.net that i wrote when i was like... 16/17 & now i'm rewriting and posting it here! isn't that shit just e xCITING? i'm like 20 now so the difference in my writing is going to be like. insane. but anyway, kind of hoping some of my old fans find this -- and if they do, i hope they let me know! until next time. i will try to update quick, but i'm back at college s o ooo

The Krimzon Guard was a rather lively bunch when not on duty.  
  
Their grunts tended to remove their chrome and red splashed masks and retreat to the bar – the one on the _nice_ side of town.  
  
Most would sit hunched in corners, in groups. Ordering a round of beer and discussing their day, their stories. Some excited to tell what they’d had to do to those less fortunate than their own ranks, and others downright ashamed.

But they’d all left people behind. Whether to join the profession, or now – haunted by what they’d done to the people who frequented Haven and had never asked for such an iron fist. The ones who needed their help, begged at their feet, and they were forced to watch and not give, never give anything to those that needed it most.

It could be argued that it was a good job.

Kept some of them from living in the slums.

Just some.

And many of them remembered their _old_ head commander. Aptly named Torn, jokes spun about how he’d been ripped at the seams, broken by what they’d been ordered to do. Left early despite his contract not running dry for another two years. His head had been put on the books by the Baron himself for insubordination. It was no wonder he hid away now – not unlike a rat.

A rat.

That was how their _current_ commander referred to Torn, but they always had this sneaking suspicion that it was what he thought of everyone. That they were all rats. Not a single one worthy of his attention, his time. If the Baron was King, than Erol was his disgruntled and tarnished dark knight. His past smothered in lies and confusion and his present rusted with blood.

He hardly ever followed them to the bar during those dusky evenings.

But that night, he happened to walk in, looking wary. Snarl upon his dry lips.

It had been a day, quite a day. He was no groomed pet, he didn’t always do exactly as he said – but when he was particularly passionate about a mission, he made sure to finish it to the end. And when he couldn’t, he finished it on his own time. That’s the plus of being bitter, the jobs that he’d finish on unpaid time, saving the Baron both resources and care.

There’s old grease smeared over his chin where the bottom of his facial plate snaps into place. One side of the smear is organic and rough and the other a very fine line where it had brushed against the biting metal of the clasp, the leather there. And another line of it over his temple and into ginger hair.

Wiry – both his hair and his attitude.

He never orders beer. Never anything else roughened, hard like they’d think – but always a single glass of white wine. They keep it under the bar for the special occasions that he comes in, and if they don’t have it they’re forced to suffer a long, aggravated look before he orders some form of diet soda.

The rest of them always still and stare and wonder.

But tonight, a younger kid chimes in, “Oi!”

Earns him a hit and a hiss, but the damage has been done. Sitting seems like far too _demure_ a verb. Lounged. Erol always lounged against his seat at the bar, covered in that obnoxious yellow and blue suit. So perfectly fitting to his skin, every stretch and dip. Poised, as if posing, and they always wonder if he’s just as tired after the long day as they are. Because if he is, he surely never shows it.

That’s part of being the predator. Always the cliché – but even the guard functions like a pack, and he’s their Alpha. Their higher, he gives the orders, and they all fear him in some way. Some for what he could do, and some because they wonder if he’ss what they’ll become if they reenlist.

Erol’s sickly yellow stare flicks to the left, where he is. And regards him for a moment as if deciding – is this boy worthy of a response? The leathered fingers that caress the wine glass lower it back to the bar, and the liquid moves round and round the glass for a long moment.

“Yes?”

An inquiry! The boy is young, late teens. Most likely had joined the KG to support his family, and he holds up a flyer. “This trip, we gon’ go, all the way to Kras City. They gon’ have a race there, a brand new one. Something for their bad economy, tryin’ to circulate money on the bets ‘n all that, ‘n you’re the best racer I know, I jus’ figured tha’ somebody should tell you!”

At some point during the spiel, he’d moved. Slinking forward to snatch the flyer up, clutch it tight in a fist for a long moment before smoothing it out.

KRAS CITY RACING COMMITTEE: INVITES RACERS, NEW & OLD.

The headline, bright and red. Racing committee? Kras had no racing committee. Only groups of crass old gang members, their employees – the racers, their only form of cash. Like combined sport of personal bets and prostitution. It was why they wrote out contracts, refused to let their best racers slip through their fingers. They couldn’t leave, because if they did, it could mean death. Assassination.

Dirty racing. Meant spilled blood and filthy brawls, and the thought makes Erol’s blood pressure rise. Anticipation filling his chest, this is what he’s based upon, his foundation. Any way to get his hands dirty, as if each time was able to bring him closer to what he considered redemption.

To Erol, what was redemption?

“Someone should have told me sooner.” His practiced lilt is so much smoother than the boy’s country accent. And for the time, the commander isn’t talking to the boy. No, the boy has proved himself within this small token of thought – it’s the rest. He looks at _them_ as he says the words. Someone should have told him, because this, this is something that surely has him interested. It is to be held against them now, all but this one, who had been so _very_ kind.

Erol is the center of attention as he walks back over to the bar and finishes his wine within five swift swallows, then carefully sets the glass back down.

“I’ve decided – that I’ll be there.”

It was the iconic line.

What the antagonist whispers before he rides out to meet his adversary.

But there were to be no heroes this time.


End file.
